


Beauty and the Beast

by go_we_li_s_gi



Category: Beauty and the Beast - Fandom
Genre: Beauty and the Beast, Gen, Grimm Fairy Tales - Freeform, Interpretation, Multi, Original work - Freeform, not Disney
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 06:32:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15018740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/go_we_li_s_gi/pseuds/go_we_li_s_gi
Summary: An original interpretation of Beauty and the Beast





	Beauty and the Beast

There once was a small town in France by the name of Villeneuve, where a very remarkable family of two lived on the outskirts of town. A 20-year-old woman by the name of Belle Benson, and her father, Maurice Benson. They owned only a few acres, but they made the most of it, building a henhouse, a bench to have breakfast and lunch at, and a stable for their horse, Felipe. The house itself was quaint, with a kitchen, one bedroom, and a studio for Maurice to work in. Scads of books were arranged in neat little piles upon dressers and bedside tables, all belonging to Belle. 

As the villagers of Villeneuve would say, Belle certainly suited her name. Plump lips and green eyes with defined, long lashes made a perfect, symmetrical face, freckles scattered across the cheeks and her snub nose. Plump in stature with a naturally cinched waist and a large bust, she certainly attracted a lot of attention. She often sported a simple lilac dress with a white apron, wearing her hair loose and wavy, coming down to her waist. 

Her father, Maurice, however, was a more homely man, his moustache and sparse head of hair had long ago turned white. He was plump himself, with a pronounced beer belly. It was clear where Belle had inherited her sharp mind and keen fondness for creativity and discovery once talking with him for a few minutes. These traits put them at odds with many of the residents of Domfront. The Bensons managed to scoot along the eyeblink of existence by selling little knick-knacks that Maurice made, while Belle maintained jobs washing clothes and working at the bookstore. Each day, Belle would walk through their yard full of wildflowers, past her garden of vegetables and herbs, to the bridge that went over a calm stream, into her little provincial village. 

Hugging her laundry basket in one arm, and carrying another one full of books with the other, she made her way to the town, the pockets of her lilac dress full of change.

“Hello!” cried out the tailor Jean to Belle from his window up high, slamming the window shutters open forcefully. Startled, she forced a smile and waved. He did that every day, as if it was planned, as if he watched her walk from her house. She chalked it up to her being paranoid. 

Meanwhile, The Baker, a big woman who went by the name Mademoiselle Moreau, strolled up to Belle with her tray full of apple turnovers. Mademoiselle Moreau had a characteristically loud voice and bellowing laugh to fit her largeness, though she wasn’t unpleasant to look at or talk to. She had a husband, though he rarely showed himself out of the house. Despite that, they seemed to be very much in love, and had five lovely children.

“Good morning, Belle!” she exclaimed, smiling wide. 

“Good morning, Mademoiselle Moreau. How are you?”

“Hah! Doing just fine. Still managing. What’re you up to?” Mademoiselle Moreau placed the tray of apple turnovers into the window of her shop, her youngest son Simon placing them all in a basket. He waved at Belle with a big smile on his face, dimples showing. Belle waved back and answered Mademoiselle Moreau’s question. “Oh, I’m just going to the do the laundry and return the book I borrowed. It’s a lovely book by Voltaire titled-” she was cut off by Mademoiselle Moreau.

“I’m sorry, Belle, today’s hectic, I have to work. Marie! Basile!” She shouted inside the house at her sixteen-year-old daughter, who was tending to the bread she and Monsieur Moreau were baking. “The baguettes! Hurry up!” she continued.

Belle rolled her eyes as she continued on her journey to the library. On her way, she passed by the pub, where all three of the Blondeau triplettes loitered and waited for a man to come their way. 

“Belle! Have you seen?” she heard one of them calling. Belle turned to look at them. They were on their way into the Tavern, being escorted by a couple bachelors. Camille, Caroline, and Cerise all looked the same, with straight blonde hair falling all the way down to their waists, delicate lips painted red, and greek noses, but the only way to tell them apart was their clothing. Camille wore orange, Caroline wore green, and Cerise wore red. 

Not knowing which one spoke, since all their voices were the same as well, she simply asked,  “Have I seen what?” 

Cerise blushed and became bubbly. 

“Gaston’s in town for some hunting! Gosh, he seems to like it here, huh? What a stud!” these remarks made Cerise’s escort make a face similar to the one Belle was making: one of annoyance and disdain; though they no doubt had entirely different reasons for their reactions. 

“Okay, I’ll be sure to watch out for him.” she remarked, wishing under her breath that he wouldn’t find her, and continued on her journey. The streets were dirty and covered with scales and blood near the fishmonger’s shop. 

The stone paths that branched throughout the village all led to the center, where the Wells were. Or, as Maurice liked to call them, the watering hole. The First Well was the one used for drinking water, while the Second was used as a place for the women to wash their laundry. It was here, every day, where she met Celeste, one of the five children of Mademoiselle Moreau. Celeste was eighteen, the second oldest, and took after her father remarkably, from her lankiness to her huge, curly hair to her caramel skin. 

There she was, scrubbing soap into a blouse, a wooden pail of laundry right beside her. Belle tapped her shoulder after setting down the basket of books. Startled, Celeste turned towards Belle and laughed a breathy, relieved laugh. Most people described Celeste as cute, but not beautiful in a mature sense. The gaps in her teeth, however small, the sea of freckles all over her body, and her big, blue doe-eyes kept her from looking like a woman who was considered beautiful. In many manners, she was considered more boyish than the rest of the girls in her family, being the only one who wore pants and sported a shorter haircut tied in a ponytail. 

“Belle!” she said. “Sit next to me, come on.” she patted the spot next to her, an empty space in the circular stone surrounding the deep pool of water. Belle picked her dress up before settling herself down to her knees, setting the tall basket full of laundry on its side, and fishing the soap out from one of the pockets of her dress. 

“Have you been practicing?” Belle inquired. Celeste chuckled sheepishly and her cheeks heated up to a red. Belle raised an exaggerated eyebrow at her with a smirk. She couldn’t hold it and chuckled, fishing out a random book from her handheld basket. 

“Okay, why don’t we read this together today?” she showed the Cover: “Moby Dick.” Celeste looked intimidated as she flipped through the pages with her thumb. 

“Are you sure I can read this? It’s five thousand pages long!” she exaggerated.

“I’m positive. You got through some Shakespeare!” Belle remarked. Celeste sighed, remembering all too well the dreaded “comedies” of Shakespeare. 

“Barely,” she whimpered. Sweat broke out on her forehead as she opened the book and began to read, slowly but surely making her way across the first page. 

“Call me... Ish-mah-eel.” Celeste stared at the page, confused. “What’s an Ish-mah-eel?” she asked.

“Close enough,” Belle laughed. She grabbed one of her father’s coats out of the tall woven basket and plunged it into the water of the well, as well as the hand that held the soap. She scrubbed the soap against the brown coat, and lavender foam began to surface. Belle watched as it floated across the water and mixed itself in with the rest of the foam of all colors coming from the other women washing their clothes.


End file.
